


Imagine Loki Finding Your Self Harm Scars And Showing You His Own And Telling You It Will Be Okay

by forestofmyown



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://fandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/72131724910/imagine-loki-finding-your-self-harm-scars-and</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING for self harm. If you are struggling with self harm, please seek assistance (I have a tab of emergency links on my blog’s sidebar if you need help finding someone to contact about these issues).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine Loki Finding Your Self Harm Scars And Showing You His Own And Telling You It Will Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://fandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/72131724910/imagine-loki-finding-your-self-harm-scars-and
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for self harm. If you are struggling with self harm, please seek assistance (I have a tab of emergency links on my blog’s sidebar if you need help finding someone to contact about these issues).

It was such a simple thing. The most casual of motions, simple and easy and innocuous. How could you have let such a thing slip, you chide yourself. How could such a normal occurrence herald this moment? This moment, where you are trapped in a slow-boiling terror. Frozen in place, held under his gaze, immobile and waiting. Waiting for judgment.

You reached out just a bit too far, is all. Reached out too far in a shirt that was just a bit too small. Your sleeves rode up your wrist, up your arm, which was turned at just that certain angle.

Happenstance. Coincidence. Chance. So unlikely.

But there they were. Those scars. All those scars.

He’d seen.

Loki’d seen.

Does he understand, you wonder. If anyone understands pain, it’s Loki. Understands the emptiness, the rage, the desperation, the silence, the noise, anger, loneliness, nothingness, all of it, none of it, everything. The draw.

How do you explain the unexplainable? How do you show someone your suffering? How can another person understand? How can they not?

You eyes flicker up, chancing a glance at the Asgardian prince – at your king. There’s a quickening in your pulse, a heavy weight in your heart. A panic that can’t show itself, that festers inside.

Please. Please. Please what? Do you even know? But it continues inside you, along with so much more, and yet so much nothing. How can the two go together? There’s too much, there’s not enough, there’s just-

You. There’s just you, and no idea how to connect to another, to tell them this.

Instead, there’re scars. Scars and memories. Some happy, some sad, some more, some less, some for no reason, some for every reason, some because. The checkmarks of your life. Each with a tiny, silent scream. Relief, if you can call it that. It’s as close as it gets sometimes. The moment of calm at the center of the storm.

Loki circles you, slowly, hands behind his back, standing tall and fierce and silent. His eyes watch you, clear as glass. And then he looks away, his steps slowing to a stop before you. His hands fall to his side, one coming to grip the other. He lets go quickly, as though only just noticing the movement, and his neck bobs as he clears his throat.

“… I suppose,” he begins, licking his lip as his voice cracks. When he continues, his words are low, quiet and thoughtful. “I suppose, sometimes, even a king can have something in common with peasant.”

Turning, he kneels before you, holding one long, slender arm out. His left. The treacherous limb that revealed a web of lies, that unraveled his world. Laboriously, he rolls up the sleeve.

And there they are. Row upon row, line upon line, crisscrossing and slashing and running along the pale, soft skin of his arm. The raised pink flesh, the white, ragged, splotches, the still healing, rough scabs.

Not this man, you think, shocked. Not my king.

But no. Of course him, too. It could be anyone. We are all, in a sense, ‘human.’ We all have our reasons. Of course him, too.

Somehow, when you meet his eyes, he knows what you’re asking, and nods. Tentatively, you touch his outstretched arm, running your fingers delicately across those testaments of life. He breathes deeply as you do, staring strait down at the contact between you.

When you reach his elbow, you let your arm slip beside his, tugging up your sleeve the rest of the way. Your limbs sit side by side, mirrors, unique reflects of yourselves.

“May I?”

You nod.

It is his turn to run his free hand along your arm. The touch is light, gentle, taking its time to examine, caring about each and every mark individually. The longer he lingers, the longer he cares, the more you feel the build of a flood behind your eyes. You try to blink it away, but you can’t, and as it spills over, you meet his gaze.

His face is calm, a stone, but his eyes; those eyes are a torrent, red-rimmed and glassy, a hurricane to match your own.

“It’s okay.” He whispers. Swallowing, he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. When he looks at you again, he’s firm, a rock in your storm. “It will be okay.”


End file.
